


long way forward

by SleeplessAnon



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleeplessAnon/pseuds/SleeplessAnon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Anyway. The thing about having the whole rewind time shit is that it doesn't do much good if you never get a chance to do it. Like if you got shot in the head. Which, you didn't, but kinda wish you had because it feels like it would have been a less stupid way to go."</p>
            </blockquote>





	long way forward

_it’s a long way forward_

_(so trust in me)_

 

**Max**

They say life is short.

In theory, you suppose this is true. Like, if you compare it to the stars and sun and earth. Or the distance between you and Chloe Price in this moment. Life is pretty short, yeah.

But on the other hand, life is the longest thing you have ever experienced. And it's been 20 years, so. It could have been shorter, you guess.

Then again, what would you know anyway?

~

When you used to look at Chloe Price, you would sometimes wonder. What does the universe have against her? Why does she suffer where others thrive? And why else would _you_ get these powers, if not to fix that?

But then you decided all that was a little too much to think about and you looked away. Yeah, you were an idiot like that. It wasn't really your fault, though. Chloe was blinding. Not like in a shiny, staring- at-the-sun sort of way. But like, in a staring-at-her-for-too-long-made-you-lose-sight-of-everything-else kind of way. Y’know.

When it ended up just the two of you, she became someone else, someone you didn’t know. That one _was_ your fault. But you were someone else too. So. You guess that doesn't really make it better. But it sort of eases your guilt a little. Guilt, you remind yourself. Not regret. You don't regret it, not at all.

Not one bit.

~

The universe had a sense of humor, see.

Chloe didn't love you. Well, she _did_. But then she didn't. Yeah. Ha-ha.

(Well, she - does? Everything is all mixed up in your head. Rather, everything is all mixed up in general. Tends to happen when you hop around in time a little too much. The only thing that matters anymore is the past tense. What _was_. What you can't fix.)

But. Well. She didn't love you after, you don't think. After Arcadia Bay. Honestly, who would? Maybe she did for a little bit. But then she realized how fucked up it was. Because it _was._ Fucked up, you mean. Arcadia Bay _was,_ as well. Past tense. You miss it, but not enough. Not like Chloe did. Which, really. It was a surprise to both of you. More to her than you. You knew, somewhere in your twisted, broken mind that she _loved_ some of the people there. Even the ones who were gone before Arcadia Bay was. Mostly them. And to take away Arcadia Bay was to take them away. You didn't expect to be forgiven for that. You didn't _want_ to be forgiven for that. You still don't.

You _would_ , however, like to be forgiven for going and dying on her.

You can't imagine a universe that exists where that would justifiably happen, though.

~

Rachel Amber is more or less exactly how you'd expected her to be. Warm, but sort of in a hazy way. Like she'll drift away in a cloud of marijuana smoke if you step too close. (Which, she probably would. You're not too sure how this ghost thing works anyway.) And she's attractive as fuck too, in like, a totally platonic way. Like, Jesus, it's not even okay for someone to look that photogenic, especially when that someone is dead. You honestly (stupidly) wish you still had your camera so you can capture how unfairly hot she is. Even though you know any shot you could capture wouldn't do her any justice. You've _seen_ photos of her before. On missing posters and in Evan’s portfolio. In _everyone’s_ portfolio, let's be honest. Rachel Amber had been Blackwell’s muse, after all. Sharp, smart eyes, framed in dark eyelashes, lips soft and pink and curved, shiny, straight brown hair that effortlessly halos her, floating and flowing slightly in the ethereal air that surrounds her. Her body is slim and lean and toned, and she's a few inches taller than you. A perfect height for a perfect body. Even the most flattering of her photos couldn’t match up to her intensity. _Chloe’s angel._

She's got a sort of smirk on her face, as if she's about to tell you a big secret. If she is, you don't hear it. You're not even sure if you _can._ Being dead and all. Her lips don't move but you think she's trying to communicate something to you. But all you get in your head is a sound like soft static and snow being trampled and packed down.

Still, you are filled with a sudden and overwhelming desire to _see_ Chloe again. Somehow. You're not sure about the _how_ part. But you're gonna make it happen.

Rachel Amber smirks wider.

You roll your eyes back at her.

~

Dying had been a unique experience.

Well, you suppose that should go without saying. Not like anyone could exactly relate what it feels like to die to you. Or that you could do the same for someone else. (Chloe, for example. Not that you would if you could. Because that would be kinda morbid. Or like super morbid.) You remember, under certain unspeakable circumstances, having _nearly_ died, but it wasn't anywhere near the same as the real thing.

Anyway. The thing about having the whole rewind time shit is that it doesn't do much good if you never get a chance to do it. Like if you got shot in the head. Which, you didn't, but kinda wish you had because it feels like it would have been a less stupid way to go.

Less than getting plowed into by a semi because you checked your phone for a second to check a text from Chloe, at least. You wish you had time to read it. It was the first time in over a year that Chloe had been the one to initiate a text conversation. Or any conversation, come to think of it. The two of you hadn't done much talking, really. Up until the night before you died. So, yeah. You've always had shit timing. Ironic, considering your abilities.

Before that night, Chloe had found a dealer, and spent her time holed up God knows where getting high and wasted. You never said anything, what right did you have? You were just glad she came home every night. Or at 2 AM the next morning, with bloodshot eyes and beer stained clothes. You had been worried that she had started doing something much worse than weed, but every time you brought it up, she would scoff and roll her eyes like you were an idiot. And how could you argue with that? You _were_ an idiot. But you trusted Chloe. Probably a testament to just how stupid you were. Trusting someone who hated you. But if you couldn't trust Chloe, then _who_? Who would give you the time of day in this too big, too loud city?

You used to fight with her every now and then. You couldn't help it - she looked worse with each day that passed, misery sinking into her eyes, her bones, her blood. Misery - and whatever substances got her through the day and into the next. So you would call her out on it, desperate for her to look at herself in a mirror, see what she was turning into. Desperate for her to look at _you_ , see what was left of you after all this. But her reaction was total and complete apathy - somehow worse than anger. So you pushed the subject, pushed and pushed until she _pushed back_. After that, your body would tense up if she turned toward you a little too quickly, or she reached in your direction to pick up something. And you stopped pushing. And she stopped talking.

So you resigned yourself to this new life. You got up early every morning and left a little cash on the table before heading off to work some shift in a miserable minimum wage job. When you got back 16 hours later and Chloe and the money would still be gone, you had the nerve to be disappointed. _This is my punishment_ , you had to remind yourself. _She owes me nothing._ You were being an enabler, you understood that much. But you were a coward, scared that if you stopped giving her a reason she would stop coming back altogether.

And some other part of your brain, so hopelessly hopeful, reminded you that _this isn't her. This is the drugs, this is the alcohol, this is_ not _Chloe._ You told yourself it was temporary, that once she recovered from the reality that plagued her, that the fog would lift and she would be _Chloe_ again. And you think it might have, that last night. But you'll never know now.

But you digress. You were thinking about - what was it again? Dying, that's what it was. You hadn't died instantly, see. But a truck going nearly twenty five miles an hour down a darkened side street didn't leave much room for anything else. So your body hit the ground a few feet forward, although you didn't really feel the impact. And you try to remember the moment that everything stopped, that time stopped, but it's like trying to remember the exact moment you fell asleep. Suddenly, you're back at the scene of the Incident.

 _The sound of screeching tires and shattered glass comes to you muffled and quiet as the semi goes careening into a nearby storefront, but the sound of your phone with Chloe's message flashing across it clattering away is like thunder. Miraculously, a soft glow of light still emanates from the cracked screen several feet away. Your hand is reaching, reaching out, not to turn back time, but to grab the phone, grab the_ fucking _phone, Max, what are you doing - and your vision is clouding and blurring away and you_ need _to read that message, need to reply, say you're so_ so _sorry and you swear to god you didn't mean for this to happen and the message is slowly coming into focus -_

_“Got the job we gonna be rich maxi pad”_

_A giggle bubbles up in your throat, and your shaking fingers tap out a reply. Your index finger hovers over the Send button, you wish you could say more but there's no time -_

~

Standing in the midst of nothingness, the screen of your phone lights up your hand. You can't see Chloe again. But…

_(Your finger hits “Send,” and the phone fades away from your palm, leaving you in the darkness. Behind you, people are calling your name in familiar voices, beckoning. You see your own shadow, stretching and extending as the light behind you grows brighter._

_You turn around._ )

You'll take the next best thing.

~

_( the love others have_

_we can’t hope to copy it_

_don’t say you’ll miss me_

_i won’t be able to bear it )_

_~_

**Chloe**

When you get the call, you don't quite believe it. Because it isn't possible, honestly. Max is - Max is invincible. Supermax. Time Lord. Whatever.

Point is, if she was gonna die, it would’ve happened ages ago. In like, the ruins of Arcadia Bay. Not _now,_ not when you were finally getting your shit together. Not when you _just_ got a job _today_ and you were supposed to tell her about it over cheap takeout dinner in the dingy, rat-infested, overpriced apartment that you two share in the middle of downtown LA.

You actually laugh into the phone, waiting for the voice on the other end to laugh back. It doesn't, instead insisting once again that you come to the hospital, that she's in critical condition.

You drop the phone, and swear loudly as you scramble to pick it back up. The landlord gives you a disgruntled look from where he's standing in the doorway - it _is_ his phone, after all. The hospital had called him when you hadn't picked up your cell phone - the battery had died as soon as you had texted Max, and you hadn't bothered to recharge it, expecting her to get home quickly anyway. You shout something into the landlord’s archaic landline - you can't be sure what, something along the lines of _I'll be there soon_ or _I'm on my way_ , and thrust the phone into the older man’s hands. You can't really hear over the ringing in your ears, but you think he asks if you're alright. You're not.

Shoving your hands into all your pockets, you struggle to remember where you put the keys to your _damn truck, and holy fuck there's no fucking time for this._ They're on the kitchen counter, or course, where Max left them - _Max, who needs you right now, so get your ass in gear -_ and you snatch them up, dashing for the door, the shitty bouquet you bought for her lying forgotten on the coffee table.

The landlord watches you go, open mouthed, before quietly closing the door for you and turning to leave.

~

Your mind is racing as you tap your fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, the LA traffic relentlessly stagnant, even at such a late hour, almost as if to spite you. You struggle to remember - what was the last conversation that you had with her? What did you say? What did _she_ say? Your head is in a haze - has been for more than a year now - two years? Has it been that long? You don't even know how much time you've spent screwing around in Randy's old warehouse.

Randy, you’d realized at some point, is just LA’s brand of Frank, really. Scraggly and foul-mouthed, with sunken eyes and thinning hair, and yet, somehow, the closest thing you have to a friend aside from Max. Ignoring, of course, all of your stupid drunken confrontations and that time he nearly shanked you.

It's nothing surprising, after all. You're not exactly known for hanging out in good company, Max being the only real exception to that rule. And now Max - you shake your head.

You guys had spoken. Last night. You remember now. She was watching with a smile bigger than you had seen since - well, y’know. You were telling her you were gonna get a job at the tattoo parlor. Because it suited you. She had agreed. She looked so damn happy that you knew you would move heaven and earth to do it for her. Like she did for you. Whatever it took and all that.

Guilt pricks at your eyes. _Two years._ You hadn't noticed her struggling, hadn't seen her cry even though you knew she did. She gave you sad, tired smiles and whispered _I love yous_ in the early morning light when she thought you were asleep. She always made sure to leave breakfast and a little cash for you before she left for work to earn the money you would burn away in puffs of marijuana and occasionally something worse. She gave you everything you didn't deserve for two straight years without leaving you, and you gave nothing back. Two years that she could have spent chasing dreams too big and bright for you to even look at. Because Max was blinding, in her kindness, in her love, in her talent. And she could have - no, _would have_ \- made it, too. You don't understand much about photography, but everyone at Blackhell raved about her talent so much that you _know_ she would have made it without you dragging her down. But she chose you. You can't even fathom _why._ You could never bring yourself to ask.

You had been sure, so sure that last night had been a sign. A turning point for both of you, toward something better.

The sharp bark of a car horn jolts you back to the present, and you hit the gas, racing for the hospital.

When you get there, you're gonna ask her. You probably already know the answer, but you need to hear the words from her.

And you need to say them back.

~

_“I don't get what you're being all pissy about anyway. So I spent a lot of cash. That's why you were working, right? So that the two of us could spend the money.”_

_…_

_“Well, yeah, it's_ me _who's spending the money, but me and you, we're partners in crime, right? What's yours is mine, and all that. And vice versa, ‘course. Do you want a joint? I've got a few left over, but_ shhh _, don't tell Randy, I wasn't supposed to take’m.”_

_…_

_‘“M not drunk. Jus’ tired, ‘s all.”_

_…_

_“Why don't you just get off my damn back? Just fuck the hell off, like everyone else did. Oh, wait, it wasn't_ their _choice was it?”_

_…_

_“The hell would_ you _know about_ fair? _You can jus’ use that damn rewind power whenever you fuck up. How's that_ fair?”

…

 _“Get the_ hell _away! I don't need you to act like my damn_ mom _, I_ had _one of those, but she's not around anymore, is she?”_

_…_

_“Just_ shut up!”

…

_“Shit, Max. Shit, I didn't mean to do that, I swear. You're bleeding, fuck. I'll get a towel, oh god stay still. Max, please don't be mad, please -”_

_Her hand goes up, and you're slipping backwards in time -_

~

You jerk awake from the dream, Max's stunned blue eyes boring holes in you, jackknifing to your feet and nearly falling on your face. (Which, really, must have been a sight to behold for whatever chump of a security guard was watching the security cams.) You had forgotten that happened. How had you forgotten? Rather, you hadn't known in the first place. Because she rewinded. At least, you think she did. But then how had you remembered? Had it happened at all? You rub your eyes, blowing out a long breath. Nothing's making sense anymore.

Somewhere between the drinks and the drugs, little pieces of your life are getting lost, moments that you couldn't get back. You had known that all along, hadn't _wanted_ them back in the first place, but your sudden sobriety brings you back to reality. The same reality Max has been facing all this time. You've been playing hide and seek with your past while she stood quietly next to you. She rewinded that moment - for what? Even if she undid what you'd done, she still knew. She would always know. The only difference is that _you_ didn't know. But you did now. Or - did it happen? The floor of the hospital waiting room seems to be swaying beneath your feet. You glance up at the sign by the automatic sliding doors. The digital screen glares back at you, and your eyes strain. The white fluorescent lighting in the room is too bright for the early morning hours.

_IN SURGERY: Maxine Caulfield._

You stare down at the chair you had leapt out of, debating silently to yourself. If you fall asleep again, you doubt your dreams will be peaceful. You haven’t gotten a good night’s rest without the assistance of weed or alcohol (or both) since Arcadia Bay, and now you also have to fear memories that you don't actually have. Not very appealing. On the other hand, though, your overactive imagination doesn't provide a great alternative to the nightmares. You'd spent the better part of the first two hours of surgery imagining the worst case scenario and nearly having a nervous breakdown. So. Not a lot of great options. You glance at the clock. 3:46 AM. The doctor had told you the surgery would take several hours, but this was just dragging on and on.

The sound of footsteps makes you jump, heart jolting. It's not from surgery, though. A young nurse in dark navy scrubs approaches you from where he's been sitting behind the front desk, a steaming cup in hand. He offers you a sympathetic smile and holds out the cup.

“Coffee,” he says simply. “You've been out here quite a long time.”

You thank him, taking the cup gratefully. You wait until the nurse is walking away before wrinkling your nose. Black coffee has never been your thing.

The clock ticks to 3:47 AM, the colon between the hours and minutes blinking steadily.

You down the coffee in two gulps, ignoring the scalding burn in your tongue.

~

You're not ready when the surgeon emerges, exhausted, with her dark bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat. You're not ready when she starts to speak, starts to say medical gibberish about your injuries, about the surgery. You're not ready for her to tell you the love of your life is dead.

~

You’ve heard it said that home feels empty without those you love. But the apartment you shared with her is anything but empty. It’s overflowing with _her_ , with Polaroid photos and ratty clothes, her stupid hipster messenger bag and torn up sneakers, the memories of her smile and her hair, the scent of her shampoo and laundry detergent. Everything except Max herself _._

 _Max_. You take a soft breath, shallow and uneven. Then another. There are boxes and boxes of photos lining the shelves, photos of you, photos of her, photos of Arcadia Bay, photos of Los Angeles. Photos of everything that you have experienced beside her. You pull the boxes down, one by one, until you can't bear to see photos of her face anymore. Your throat starts to constrict and you lie back, struggling to breathe in.

It must have been hours that you spent, lying flat on your back on the hardwood floor of your tiny kitchen, counting soft and unsteady breaths. First breaths, in a manner of speaking. The first that Max will never get to take.

You don’t cry.

~

It takes you a day of lying there to work up the courage to fish out your phone from the pile of clothes in the bedroom. You have to call her parents, after all. Takes you a good forty minutes of standing and breathing to even look at the door to the bedroom, and another two hours to step into the room.

You try not to breathe in as you make your way through the room - the smell of her is there, but you can’t help but feel like it’s already starting to fade. _Good_ , you think. _That’s … good._

Setting the phone down by the outlet, you stare at the charger. You don’t want to make this call. How are you supposed to? How can you tell the Caulfields _“Oh, hey, your daughter’s dead and it’s kinda sorta my fault since if I had pulled my shit together she probably wouldn’t have been out so late?”_

You pause thoughtfully. _Why don’t I just go with that? Not like they could possibly think of me as a good person either way._

Still, your hands shake as you plug in the chord. The Apple logo lights up the screen as the phone powers on, and you've never hated the look of it before. You sit back on your heels, rocking back and forth, rubbing your palms together as the phone starts up.

Unlocking your phone, your finger inches towards the phone app, but you pause. There's a notification in your messages. It's surprising, to be sure. No one really texts you, except _her._

You open the message, and your breath catches, and the phone tumbles from your hand. You fall backwards, head hitting the floor. You don't feel it. The cracks in the paint on the ceiling blur and swim in your vision.

You're not crying.

~

(The screen reads:

_“I love you”)_

~

_( turning happiness into tears_

_is a kind of bravery_

_don’t say you’ll miss me_

_i won’t be able to bear it )_

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> My first piece on this website! I originally posted this one shot on ff.net, but I just joined and wanted to test out the submission process on AO3. I have to say, I like it much better :D
> 
> The title comes from Porter Robinson and Madeon's "Shelter." The song lyrics in parentheses are taken from JJ Lin's "Practice Love." (Two very different songs lol) I actually wrote a little bit more for Chloe's part, like the aftermath and all that, but I feel like I like the piece better where it ends here. And I prefer the ambiguity, to some extent. I did consider splitting their perspectives into two different chapters, but I felt I would be tempted to add too much. Less is more and all that. 
> 
> I've never really written "angst" before, so sorry if it's weird. If you have any feedback for me, feel free to leave a comment. Also, if there are any glaring spelling/grammatical errors, please let me know! I read through it a couple times, but I tend to miss little mistakes from time to time.
> 
> Thanks for reading :) I'm hoping to write some more sometime soon.


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